


Cold Hearts Need Oxygen: Volume 1

by Chessie_Lynne



Series: Cold Hearts Need Oxygen [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Agender, Angst, BDSM, Cheating, Cocaine, Comfort, Dating, Drama, Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Family, Fluff, Frerard, Gender, Genderfluid, Genderfluid Character, Healing, Heartbreak, Heroin, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Infidelity, Love, M/M, MCR, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Model, Modeling, Modern AU, Multi, Musicians, Panic Attacks, Panic! at the Disco - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prostitution, Rehabilitation, Representation, Romance, Ryden, Rydon, Sex, Smut, Spentrick, Therapy, Top - Freeform, Touring, Travel, Violence, brallon, breakdown - Freeform, non-binary, patd - Freeform, relationships, rockstar - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-11-14 13:46:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11209314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chessie_Lynne/pseuds/Chessie_Lynne
Summary: Ryan Ross is the poster boy for bad decisions. From shacking up with pretty men and women to telling his old manager where to go and how to get there, he's been Hollywood's most beloved enigma since the start. With so many bad decisions under his belt, Ryan's only hoping for the one decision that'll make the others seem right.And then there's Brendon.Brendon is the man with an invisible history, the man that believes in fairy tales and princesses despite it all, and Ryan can't resist the fire in his eyes. Nobody taught him that if you play with fire you're bound to get burned.Eventually the whiskey dries up and the sins settle in. Things change. Hearts change. Disaster can strike in a single night, and when it does it'll leave the both of them asking one single question;After disaster, where do we go?





	1. I

**Brendon**

 

The summer of 2007 was one that marked the death of an era. And I’m not talking about the era of the world without iPhones. I’m talking about the era in which I existed for everyone _but_ myself.

When everything changed, it was a sticky night in the middle of August. I was sat in a dark hotel room with a single window, and no air conditioning. There was a single bead of sweat trickling down my temple, and a cigarette hanging off of my lower lip. Meagan used to tell me that these damn things’d kill me someday. I always laughed right in her pretty little face and remark with a smirk; ‘ _Honey, I’m already dead_.’

There were diamonds outside of my window. Diamonds in red and yellow, and blue, and pink belonging to the Strip, dancing right into the black horizon. Rihanna’s voice was keeping me company as she crackled through the old-timey radio sat on the bedside table, and I found a strange sense of comfort in it. I don’t exactly know why. Maybe it was just another voice that brought me comfort. Maybe it was the music itself.

Someone appeared behind me. I didn’t know their name. I still don’t, and I don’t need to. I didn’t need anything from him, really. But he gave me everything.

Wrapped up in a cardboard folder was one thing I never imagined that a human being could possibly capture.

 

_Freedom._

 

* * *

 

“Hey! Urie!” A voice booms from behind me as the bell above the door clangs with the final customer of the evening leaving into the fading daylight. My head jerks, and I nearly drop the customer’s plate that I’d autonomously cleared. I’m not sure how I missed the hustle and bustle of the diner simmering down into a quiet nothingness, until I hear Rihanna’s voice hissing from the radio in the kitchen and it’s clearer now, I understand. My vision clears, revealing a friendly face behind the bar, and I can feel my stomach slowly start to lift after having dropped to the floor. Travie straightens his flat brim, and looks at me with those warm, friendly eyes that remind me of the burnt coffee we’re accustomed to serving. My tense shoulders recede down my back, and I let go of my held breath as I acknowledge him with a smile.

“What’s up?” I ask, wandering closer to him. As I bend over to dump the leftover eggs and burned out cigarette butt into the trash, Travie fishes around in his pocket for something. Finally, he pulls a ring of keys out, and his long and slender fingers fumble with them for a few moments before plucking an unused one from the mix and extending it out to me.

“Here,” he offers. I set the plate on the counter and take the key from his fingers. “I had you one cut since you lost yours. Thought maybe the boss’d have your head if you told ‘im that you gone and lost your third this month.”

I look down at the shiny new key, and I feel the corners of my lips twisting up into a soft smile. Travie and I have been working together ever since I got to LA and landed this job. He’s always had my back, and when I’d texted him complaining about losing my key this morning, I guess I should have expected him to pull through for me. “You shouldn’t have, Trav.” I tell him, smoothing the pad of my thumb over the rigid surface, and reach around to tuck it in my back pocket.

“I had to. Can’t risk losin’ you, man. You’s the only thing ‘round this dump that brings a little sunshine once in awhile.” The moment of silence between us that follows his words holds gratitude. He clears his throat and pats his thighs with a sense of finality, “Well-- I’ll catch you later. I got a date tonight.” He explains, lifting a broad hand to clap my shoulder. He smiles again, and I feel less alone-- or a little less, anyways. In comparison to the episode I’d just braved. It doesn’t matter just how much he doesn’t know, he doesn’t have to, his kindness is enough.

“You’re too sweet for your own good, Trav. Have fun.”

He gives me a look that says something soft, like he’s got my back. It’s almost brotherly in nature, and I can’t say that I don’t feel the same sort of kinship towards him. He moves past me, light on his feet as he bounces towards the door, a hand hooked over his shoulder to wave me goodbye for the night. When he’s gone, the radio is still crackling, and I’m still drowning.

I reach through the opening in the wall that connects the kitchen and the lobby, and I twist the knob to a different station. The memory of the song still lingers, though, and that’s the hard part, I guess. That it lingers. That _everything_ lingers.

The guitar bleeds through my thoughts, dissipating the pressing ache that rests upon my chest. The vocals feel soft and soothing. I can move forward. I’m always moving forward.

I press my palms into the countertop and face the front of the restaurant. The Hive is a desolate place. I’d worked in the food industry when I was young, however I had never been a server. Maybe if I had been, I’d have avoided this shit when I got here and opted for something with... I don’t know, perhaps a shred more dignity.

Through the big bay windows and glass door, I can see people wandering past the storefront, some hand in hand, some obviously on their way to somewhere more important. Overhead, the sky is moving from yellow to orange, and I can feel the warmth from here. A sigh escapes my lips, because I’m suddenly rocked with the sudden realization of just where I truly am.

Los Angeles is a city of dreamers, and I count myself to be among them. A dreamer, that is. The frustrating thing is that for people like us, opportunity comes a-knocking only once in a lifetime, and for me, that just hasn’t happened yet. There’s hundreds of people out there right now, draped in the finest clothes from Givenchy or Chanel, or Vera Wang. Drinking aged champagne in rooftop gardens with the prettiest people in America.

And then there’s me. There’s Brendon Urie, standing in a dirty t-shirt and jeans with a nametag that’s got my misspelled name written in sharpie on the plate. Standing in the centre of a run-down diner in South LA, breathing in the scent of grease and aged food, and just yearning to be a part of the glamour.

I get it, though. Some people just aren’t cut from that cloth. I come from Summerlin, Nevada. I’m no Bel-Air Baby, I wasn’t born into money. But all be damned if I’m not trying my hardest out here.

I’m running through my closing duties slowly tonight. The walk home isn’t always a pleasant one, and I always tend to put it off for as long as I can manage. I like to think that that’s why the boss keeps me around. Not because I put off walking home, but because when I do do that, I complete all of the extra cleaning tasks that I’m not required to do. I wash the windows, clean the disgusting, dried gum off of the bottom of the tables, scrub the floors. I’m nearly done for the night, humming a tune to myself as I turn over all of the chairs and set them on their tables. “And if you’re still bleeding… you’re the lucky ones--” My vocals break what I had perceived as silence, the soft guitar, the warming rhythm line, becoming a piece of my consciousness. The words stuck, one chorus and they stick, one chorus and I _have_ them, one chorus and I believe them. I think that’s the point that any musician wants to make. Nothing else matters unless the words stick. Unless they make you _feel_ something.

The sky outside has turned black, and the stars are absent in the presence of the street lamps and city life polluting it all. I heave a sigh, and wipe the sweat off of my forehead with the back of my palm. Right as I’m about to cash-out, there’s a knock on the door. I turn on my heel, already prepared to tell the asshole that we’re closed for the night, when I see that the asshole isn’t just some vagrant looking for a meal. It’s William.

William is probably my oldest friend. I met him when I first ended up here, and I waited on him, right over there at table 12. He was with his girlfriend at the time, and she left in a huff that night. We were close to closing, and I sat down across from him and gave him a cold one on the house. I busted his balls about him about bringing a girl on a date to a place like this. ‘ _I don’t even bring people here, and I_ work _here_ ’ I told him with a laugh. We sat there for a long while, and talked over beers when I should have been closing the store, but I couldn’t be bothered. I didn’t get out a lot, and there was someone _normal_ who finally wanted to talk to me. Shocking, right?

I toss the wash rag over my shoulder and unlock the door for him. He’s beaming as he shuffles in, hands tucked in the pockets of his Levis. “Hey, kid. What’s buzzin’?” he asks me, lifting a hand to move his hair from his face. A laugh escapes my lips, and I twist the deadbolt back into place.

“What is this, 1945?” I ask. I’m met with an open palm smacking me in the shoulder blade, which urges another laugh. “What are you doing here, don’t you have places to be and people to swindle? Ain’t that the whole ‘agent’ motto?” I tease. William gives me a fake laugh, as if to tell me to fuck right off. He strolls in past me, and takes a seat at the nearest booth. “Hey, watch the shoes, man, I just washed these floors.”

“What’s this business about swindling? Don’t be a brat, Brendon, I’ve done very well by you.” He warns. His tone is anything but menacing, though. It seems funny to

“You do okay. Y’know. For a _rookie_.”

“Oh, and you know so much about being professional, huh? Mister ‘shows up to the shoot still high from his wake and bake’.” William snaps back. I stand, leaned against the pony wall with one elbow propped up, and a face displaying false shock.

“That was one time!”

 

_‘--and that was Youth- Ryan Ross’s single dropped today. Rumor of a junior studio album to be released some time this year --’_

 

William’s head cranes towards the radio as the host names the last single. That name-- Ryan _Ross_. It sounds so vaguely familiar. Maybe I’d seen his name on a headline somewhere.

“Did he just say Ryan Ross?” William asks as if something had just clicked in his mind. His voice startles me out of my zone where I’d been trying to place a face to the name I barely knew. My eyes focus back on William, and I nod, sliding into the booth.

“Yeah, I think so. Why?” I ask, reaching for the salt shaker at the edge of the table to keep my hands busy. Instead of answering me, William hurriedly begins searching his pockets for his phone. Sensing the urgency of the situation, I straighten my shoulders and lean over the table a little more. I always hate when he does this. He thinks it adds some kind of drama to leave me hanging. Instead it just fills me with anxiety as I’m left to wait and wonder. “Answer me, Bill.” I urge with a slight tinge of annoyance. Just as the words leave my lips, William pulls his phone out and is already frantically tapping his passcode in and rifling through emails. The contradiction of his motivation and his lack of urgency is borderline frazzling.  

“Ah!” he barks. I can’t read the words on his screen upside down, but his eyes are moving swiftly over each line, as if to proofread before showing me. “Here,” He turns the phone around and slides it across the table propping it in his hand so that I can read it. My eyes dart over words, jargon I don’t particularly understand. It’s all nonsense, I can barely register it as relevant. Finally, my gaze zeroes in on a name. Ryan Ross. So there was a connection.

I knit my brows together and look back up at the man across from me. I’m waiting for some kind of clarification, a story, anything. I get nothing but silence and excited eyes from my friend across the table. “Are you gonna explain or are you gonna make me read this shit myself?”

He gives a huff and an eyeroll, as if I really should have been able to figure this out myself. His mood is immediately replaced by excitement, however. “I put out your portfolio to a few agencies, and there was a request for a model for this guy’s album cover.” William explains, animatedly waving his hands about as he speaks. “I got a call this morning that you got the gig.” he says, beaming. Clearly he was proud of himself, which he should be, considering he hasn’t gotten me a decent gig in weeks. He’s a wonderful friend, but truly an awful agent.

There’s a warmth in Willam’s voice when he tells me this. It’s almost palpable. His honey-mocha eyes are transfixed on me, awaiting a reaction. I don't know what else to do but to say thank you.

“Thank you?” He asks, chuckling and snatching his phone back. I worry I had offended him. I choose not to say  anything. “Don't I deserve an award, or something? Agent of the Year? Do you even understand the _gravity_ of what this could mean for your career?”

I shrug, and look back out the window, fixating on the cars rolling past the diner. Headlights and tail lights blurring the busy streets. What William is saying makes sense, in hindsight. There's some big shot out there in the music business who likes my face. So what? Does it mean anything?

“That’s cool, Will. Thanks. I mean, I don't see it really skyrocketing anything career wise. If that spread that I did for Gucci didn't put me on the map, this won't either. But it’ll be good experience. And I guess it’ll look cool on a resume.”

He looks at me dumbfounded as his jaw dropped, he looked like a damn fool, trying to catch a fly or something, “Dude!” He looks like he wants to grip me by the shoulders and shake me, “It’s Ryan Ross!”

“Uh--” It didn’t ring any bells the first time and it sure didn’t ring any the second. “Okay-- and--?

William huffs and makes a face at me, one where his eyebrows pull together and the dimples on his cheeks fill out and fall. Dejected, he leans back against the booth seat and crosses his arms over his chest. “At least I got you the gig, man. Even if you fail to recognize just the gravity of it-- I know for a fact that Elizabeth Berg’s manager put in for it, and one other high-profile yuppie from North Holly.”

Oh, Elizabeth put in for the job? This surprises me. Not because of Elizabeth’s skill in the business, however. Because, let’s face it. She doesn’t have much. What she does have, however is ribs that are visible when she lifts her shirt, ruby red lips, and blonde hair that dusts her protruding collarbone. Simply put, women like Elizabeth are a dime a dozen in the land of silicone dreams. There’s nothing that makes her unique by modelling standards. So she sleeps with agents to garner leverage in her career. And I mean, really, who doesn’t in this business? Men in suits think that because there’s a golden placard on the side of their desk that they’re the second coming of Christ. The girls here never stop to think that beneath the green lining their pockets, they’re really just demons dressed in Armani with tobacco and whiskey on their breath. Maybe that’s why I’m getting nowhere in my career. Perhaps they’ve had it right all along, maybe I’ve just gotta dance with the devil.

I’ve drifted off, staring out the window in thought. Somewhere in my consciousness I’m aware of William across from me, talking as if I’m listening, and I am aware of the radio still humming somewhere in the restaurant. My body is there, but my mind is across the street with a young woman. She has olive toned skin and is standing with her dainty shoulder blades pressing into the brick wall of the foreclosed hardware store littered with graffiti. With shaking hands, she withdraws a cigarette from her clutch, and strikes a match on the brick. Lights the cigarette. Her feet have permanent tan-lines from the straps on her heels, and her long, too-slender legs are littered with bruises and scrapes. I feel a tightening in my chest as I watch her-- No. Observe her.

She’s got dark, hardened eyes. The kind of eyes that reach inside of you and swallow your soul, should she look for too long. I want to know her, and I want to rescue her all at once, and the mixture of the two emotions is a recipe for toxicity. But I can’t help it. I’m drawn to her, because I know that she has a story.

I force myself to look away from her when I see a black Cadillac pulling up to her little corner of concrete. I don’t want to watch her go, because I know that when I’m bent over, scrubbing tables and searching for her across the street, she’ll be gone, and I’ll be the only one who knows. I can’t let myself feel pity for her, I can’t let myself wonder if she will make it home, if she has a home, I can’t.

My eyes find William’s again. He’s carrying on about some broad that he bagged when he was at the Hills Penthouse last weekend. I’m not surprised, not even phased. What else is new? William hasn’t held down much of anything, let alone a lover, in a long while. Well, at least the while that I’ve known him.

“So anyways, I’m going to town on her, right? And--” He laughs, cutting himself off. I’m assuming it’s because he can see the distant look in my eyes. I’m staring right through him, through this playboy facade that he fronts. He does it because he thinks it’ll help him make it. Like maybe if he hides the fact that he’s just a dreamer from the south side of Chicago they’ll let him into their secret club. Like if he pretends to be just like them they’ll believe him. I know he’s not though, I know he’s better than them. He’s more respectable than this story will have you believe. I’m staring right through sharp, charming eyes, and straight through his head to the other end of the diner. I just...Hadn’t thought it had been obvious.

“Is everything okay, man? You look a little bugged.” He asks. His voice is more gentle now, as if he’s talking to an injured child. Perhaps my biggest pet peeve is being perceived as this weak, snivelling child who needs consoling. The only reason I’m cracked is because he insists on trying to bust through my shell. I’m not broken like so many try to have me believe. Fuck that. I’ve wrapped myself in concrete long enough to know that if I live to see the sun kiss the eastern sky every morning I don’t need anybody singing my pitfalls.

“I’m fine.” My voice is flat when the words leave my lips. I can tell that William is bothered by this-- I mean, why wouldn't he be? He just got me a killer gig, he’s offering me an opportunity to let me live vicariously through him and his stories of drug induced sex on balconies that don’t belong to him. He’s the perfect friend, or at least he believes,  and even, dare he say, the perfect man.

He doesn’t buy my effort-lacking ruse. He sucks his lip into his mouth and I watch his eyes dart nervously around the room in search of something to say or do. He’s uncomfortable. He wants me to say something. He wants me to do something. He wants _anything_. That in of itself is a tell of just how different William and I are. He can’t just share in silence.

“Uh--” He begins, trying desperately to cover lost ground with me. It’s cute. I’m already way ahead of you, man. Get the hint. “I mean...Just try and get excited about this project, okay? It’ll be fun! When is it not fun?” William says to me, offering some reason I should get excited, happy, energetic, to get anything other than… this whatever I am. It’s nice that he’s trying.

 “There was that one time--”

On second thought, don’t answer that,” He interrupts, even lets out a sigh to let me know just how disappointed he really is. As if I didn’t already know, “Look. I know you’re a creative. I know you need to thrive on ideas and concepts to shine. And maybe I’m not the best agent in the ‘biz’, or most professional-- or--, I dunno, maybe that’s why I’m still with Flushed, but hey. I’m gonna give you the boss’s digits-- I think it might be Ross’s, maybe Wentz-- not sure, regardless, connect with somebody besides your dog for a change.” He offers. He’s already pulled a pen out of seemingly thin air and has begun to scrawl numbers out on the palm of my hand in bleeding blue ink. I read it upside down several time to commit the number to my fading memory. There are holes in my brain that I didn’t put there.

“Don’t talk about Bogart like that,” I sass, retracting my hand. “At least he knows how to wear a collar. William, dear, for the love of everything that is pure, please learn how to fold your collar down.”

A smile crosses his face in the presence of my sarcasm. “That’s my Brenny.”

“God-” I groan, “Don’t call me that.” Sliding out from the booth. I wave my inked hand, and gesture towards the door. William follows naturally.

“I’ll call you Brenny-Boo-Bear if I so wish.” William sasses as he pushes past me. My eyes roll into the back of my head so hard, I fear they might actually stick.

 

 

* * *

 

When the bus lurches to a stop in front of the run down Walgreens on the corner of my block, I step out onto the pavement in the dim glow from the red neon signage overhead. The daytime glow is gone, leaving the block to fall victim to the sinners of the night. At least during the day when I go to work, there are children playing in the streets and along the sidewalks. Girl Scouts tote their wagons behind them as they approach home after broken home hoping to sell just one more box of Thin Mints. Mrs. Johnson has Californian poppies in her garden. But the sun has fallen asleep, and it’s the moon’s time to shine. It’s the time when the rats and the demons come out of the gutters to play.

These streets that I’ve called home for so long are awash with dozens of characters, each of them plucked right out of Hell’s playbook. I see boys who sell narcotics in the shadows, I see girls who sell their bodies in on the concrete catwalk, I see gang members with guns hanging from their waistbands, and people with hardened faces that wouldn’t think twice of murdering you cold in the alleyways between buildings. The landscape is a wasteland, accompanied by a symphony of gunshots and sirens, illustrated by graffiti and abandoned drug houses. This place is devoid of liveliness, and it _exhausts_ me.

I trudge down the lonely street towards my apartment complex, and I ignore the man on the bottom step as he says something derogatory to me for the seventh night in a row. He’s always got a fifth of whiskey, half emptied between his feet. He’s another brand of character from the streets of South LA. A serial addict. Then again, we’re all addicted to something. We’ve all got our vices.

When I get to my door, I fumble with my keys for a moment, eyes darting side to side down the dirty hallways. The door is a sickening sea-foam green with paint chipped away from years of being uncared for. The placard above the peephole with the numbers for my unit are rusting and falling off, and I make a mental note to buy some glue as I push inside.

The quality of the innards of the flat aren’t much more pristine than the rest of the building. The word ‘decay’ comes to mind when you step foot inside. The carpets are littered with stains, and the walls bruised with dents and chips in the drywall. There used to be life here. It used to live on my shoulders. Oozing from me, dripping from my weathered bones. Siphoning the effervescence from me, draining my psyche-- all so that I could exist in a space where everything that entered died. Every crack in the wall was filled with love. Every stain, bursting with good vibes. But that’s where the magic dies, boys and girls. You try your hardest, and push and push and push yourself until you’re at your limits. And then you burn out. And then you become a hollow skeleton of who you once believed you were.

I’ve still got William’s suggestion on my mind. It burns me every time I think about it. Every time I look down at the digits written in fading ink on my palm, it burns. Because I’m nobody. I’m a name on an invoice, I’m a number in the system, I’m nobody. What would texting this number achieve? I can taste the rejection hot and salty on my tongue already. Then again… What do I have to lose? A job, maybe. Yeah, I could definitely lose a job, and William would probably kill my contract. But who gives a shit? Really, I mean, who gives a single shit about losing a job that wasn’t exactly thrilling in the first place? Oh, I can hear it now. The Wilhelmina Models crying because they didn’t get the job, and here I am, treating it as if it’s meaningless.

I don’t know why I want to challenge the powers that be. I don’t know why I want to ruin my own career in a series of ill-thought out texts. Maybe because I know how plastic everything is. I’ve lived in Los Angeles long enough to know that nobody fucking matters in this hellhole of a town. You don’t. I don’t. Cash is king, and if you’re rich, you’re pretty, and if you’re pretty, you go far in this game. And I want to do something fucking meaningful for once. I don’t just want to smile for a picture, I don’t just want to sit back and let people photoshop me until I’m not even myself anymore. But that’s all this modelling schtick is, anyways. I knew that when I got into it, because I know that the only thing I have going for me is a nice ass and a pair of lips that even Kylie fucking Jenner would envy. And maybe that’s why I hate myself. Maybe it’s because I hate being fake, but at the centre of myself, I’m doing that very thing.

I lay down on the mattress and toss the thin blanket over my legs. I’ve got Candy Crush open on my phone, and I’m trying to unwind- knowing that it’s back to the fucking Diner at 10 AM tomorrow morning. Back to grease stained aprons and bratty kids who colour on the table. Back to square fucking one.

As I’m playing, though, I notice something. I notice the numbers again. This time, I don’t ignore them.

I’d call this a leap of faith, but it’s not. It’s not at all. It’s defiance. It’s me wanting to take traditional ways of doing projects and throw them out the window, because I just don’t care anymore. If it doesn’t mean something, I don’t care. Screw it. Send.

 

_Is this Ryan Ross?_

 

* * *

 

There are two names that absolutely, without a doubt just _vex_ me.

One of those is now Ryan Ross.

The way he spoke so fluidly with palpable arrogance sent shivers of fiery anger up and down my extremities. It’s almost as if he can smell the poverty on me through the phone like cheap cologne and cigarettes, and he speaks to me accordingly. In every conceivable way, I am beneath him.

My phone starts buzzing. Without even casting so much as a sidelong glance in the direction of my phone, I know it’s him. Without a doubt, it’s him. Back at it again with the conceitedness that comes shrinkwrapped as part of the gold Hollywood membership package.

But the buzzing won’t stop. And my eyes just aren’t heavy enough to surrender me to sleep, and finally I slide my hand out from beneath my blanket to grab my phone and bring it back into view. Naturally, there’s only one blurry name etched digitally into my screen.   
  


_Ryan Ross._

 

_[12:10 AM] You know you haven’t mentioned my work a single time. Do you even know who I am? RR_

 

And there it is again. Flagrant arrogance so warm I can feel it’s gentle heat through the phone. It’s ridiculous. Why would it matter if I had or had not been familiar with his work? It would be different if I was working with an artist- A true artist. With mediums like paint and canvas to bring a vision to life. But no. I’m working with the type of artist that thinks that the industry was handcrafted by God for them and them alone. So no, I don’t know ‘who you are’, and I don’t care either.

I take a moment to compose myself by staring at the ceiling. The light fixture in this area of the flat is devoid of a lightbulb...Or a fixture for that matter. It’s a handful of open wiring that my prick of a landlord can’t be bothered to fix- but it’s proving to be a unique calming tool for me to stare at and count the wires as I find it within myself not to blatantly tell my next potential employer to shove his album up his ass.

Now that I’ve found myself in a state of calm, I bring the phone to my face again and read over the message again. And again. And a third time for good measure. Maybe I’m just trying to figure out what to say without sounding snarky. But who am I kidding? Snark is my middle name.

 

_[12:13 AM] I know that you’re Ryan Ross. God of Hollywood, Prince of Beverly Hills, Ruler of Interscope Records. Or, that’s how you present yourself, anyhow. BU_

_[12:15 AM] I’ve heard like, the odd song on the radio here and there. BU_

 

I don’t tell him that I think he’s got narcissism in his veins where blood should be, and I don’t do it purely because the energy I once had stored inside me has evaporated and left me feeling more like a deflated beach ball than a human being.

 

_[12:16 AM] you seem to think very highly of me. RR_

 

Ah, intuition! He’s getting the hint now. Is there a glimmer of hope on the horizon, folks? Stay tuned for more.

 

_[12:16 AM] did you like them? RR_

 

Nope.

 

_[12:20 AM] They weren’t bad. I was closing the restaurant up tonight and one was playing. BU_

_[12:20 AM] huh, I have to say I don’t get that often. It’s refreshing though. RR_

 

Since round two of the battle royale began, I’ve since found myself a home on my kitchen floor with a mug of Wal-Mart’s finest green tea keeping me warm. Bogart keeps my toes cozy while I stir the honey around in my mug with a plastic spoon, and I read Ryan’s most recent message. It boggles me, really. How can it be so remarkably refreshing for somebody to not know this guy? Surely not everyone knows his name. I almost fire back at him with a snide comment about this when he messages again.

 

_[12:21 AM] Your portfolio was very nice. Especially the headshot. Just captivating. RR_

 

A compliment. A true, honest compliment. Hm. Now that’s what I would call refreshing.

In the past I’ve been known to take a man’s compliment and treat it like it were meant wholly. As any normal person would, right? Striving to be normal has been in my playbook since day one in Los Angeles. I’ve learned that compliments are under the umbrella of seduction, and that any compliment ought to be taken with the most miniscule grain of salt.

But if I’m being real with myself, a compliment from a celebrity feels pretty damn awesome.

 

_[12:23 AM] You’re not used to people being oblivious to you? BU_

_[12:24 AM] Thank you. I grew these eyebrows myself. BU_

_[12:26 AM] Truly impressive work lol. Well yeah, no. I mean… no offense but you must live under a rock. I have no way to say that that doesn’t make me sound like a cock so I’ll just sit back and accept it i guess-- heh. RR_

_[12:27 AM] Vague insults, huh? You native Angelenos are really interesting creatures. Not of this world. BU_   
_[12:28 AM] I guess I’ll let it slide. BU_

_[12:29 AM] If it counts for anything I spent a solid 45 seconds trying to figure out a way to question your awareness of our culture without insulting you. So that should offer you at least some ease of mind. RR_

_[12:29 AM] It’s the thought that counts right? So...You’re welcome. Lol RR_

_[12:31 AM] I swear this isn’t supposed to come off as bad as it’s about to-- do you want to like… actually listen to some of my stuff? Before we work together? You were looking for a vision for the shoot-- hearing my sound might ya know.. Be a benefit. RR_

Across the top of the screen, the message bubbles continue to roll in, but I’m nowhere near my messaging app. Instead, I’m knee deep in Google images with his face plastered all over my screen. He’s different, and I’m not entirely sure how. He doesn’t have the generic big, white teeth and square jaw that I’ve seen trending. He’s got high cheekbones and a face that shifts from childlike to rugged depending on the amount of stubble he’s displaying in any given photo. He’s got eyes that remind me of whiskey. Twelve-year old whiskey. The good shit.

 

_[12:33 AM] Somebody’s desperate. BU_   
_[12:35 AM] Link me something. I don’t doubt that you have a whole Spotify playlist loaded with just your personal tunes. BU_

_[12:35 AM] I swear it’s not supposed to be that shitty! I really don’t mean it like that I swear. Besides I’ve got plenty of fans-- I don’t have to force one more. But I’m sure I’ll persuade you in no time ;) RR_   
_[12:36 AM][soundcloud.com/user/RyRoss](http://soundcloud.com/user/RyRoss) There’s my soundcloud. It’s got my records on it, it’s got other stuff too. Ya know the important stuff to personal stuff and everything inbetween. RR_

 

The link takes me to a SoundCloud page where it’s apparent that he dumps the stuff that the label won’t let him release. I stare at the orange wavelengths in awe. Just for a moment. It feels surreal to be staring at somebody’s whole heart. Their livelihood-- Stories based on their experiences, their entire lives condensed into a handful of small audio wavelengths in tasteful and aesthetically pleasing colours.

Again, it feels so fake. Plastic.

But when I press play, and soft harmonies that remind me of my home back in the desert start to fill my ears. This song is gentle. Like a hug. Almost. It’s a story, like any other song. But somehow this feels different. And I don’t know why, but the words feel tailored to me, as if I was the subject of something beautiful, just once.

 

Isn’t that how music is supposed to feel?

 

_[12:55 AM] Lonely Moonlight is a bop. Kinda like...Super indie. Were you born at Coachella? BU_

 

_[12:57 AM] Thanks, it’s important to me. RR_

_[12:57 AM] I’m also /immediately/ realizing that isn’t necessarily a good thing lmao and no-- I was born in Boulder, Nevada. RR_

 

Something is important to him that’s an interesting point. Seems to me like all his songs were something important to some song writer. Some song writer sitting in a cubicle for the label slaving away and getting little to no credit for their words. Maybe these words were actually his.

 

_[12:59 AM] Boulder? No way, I’m from Summerlin! Small world. Who knew that Boulder of all places bred rockstars. BU_

_[1:02 AM] It was a good thing. Or, I think so. I’m just joking. BU_

_[1:04 AM] It doesn’t breed rockstars-- it injects the brooding artist persona into your veins and forces you to simmer in it until someone decides to make a profit lmao. RR_

_[1:06 AM] I’m glad you liked it-- RR_

There it is again, that pretentious- God, I don’t even know how to describe it, other than extra. Why did he have to be like that? Why wasn’t ‘It was hell and forced me to write’ good enough for him? I guess maybe that’s what he believes makes him special. That he could put words together like this and believe it.

 

_[1:08 AM] Whoa whoa whoa. BU_

_[1:13 AM] Sorry. I needed to take a second to process just how pretentious that sounded. BU_

_[1:14 AM] That was so indie poetic that I feel like I should put on a hat and join Mumford & Sons just from reading that. Boy. You’re a poet, huh? BU_

_[1:15 AM] I came out to have a good time and I’m honestly just feeling so attacked rn. RR_

_[1:15 AM] Kind of predominantly, yeah. I mean I’ve been writing ‘poetry’ since I was in the third grade. Granted at that point it was just me stringing words together but ya gotta start somewhere. RR_

Part of me wants to make sure he knows just how expired that meme is, but I don’t bother. I’m just glad he didn’t try to paint himself as some child prodigy. Simply an admirer of words that eventually managed to turn it into something people could enjoy. I can take that- I can accept it. And I guess that’s the start of us being able to work together.

 

_[1:17 AM] Yeah, but like… We were all poets in the third grade. BU_

_[1:19 AM] Your ass just caught a lucky break and turned it into a career. BU_

_[1:20 AM] I mean...Isn’t that what all of this is? Writing? Music and poetry? It’s just stringing 26 letters together to create lilting harmonies and melodies and verses that put emotion into stranger’s hearts. BU_

_[1:23 AM] ...Look what you’ve done to me. BU_

_[1:25 AM] Who’s the pretentious indie mumford and sons member now? Hm? ;P  I mean, yeah it is. But I don’t think I could ever be a /poet/. You can’t filter poetry like you can music. You pick what goes out and people eat up a formula and that formula isn’t personal. Poetry isn’t successful unless it’s raw. I’d have to publish anonymously. RR_

 

He’s right. And he has me interested. He has me… he has me wanting to know more, he has me excited. I flew into his web, and I’m stuck. He’s gonna have me wrapped in his coil before long, I can feel it. And it starts with me opening back up his cloud, reading the comments, listening to the words. I target the lesser listened to tracks, that’s where the gold mines seem to be.

 

_[2:12 AM] I’m listening to more on your cloud. BU_

_[2:15 AM] And? RR_

_[2:18 AM] I like it, I like it a lot. I mean, I wouldn’t buy it on iTunes, but it’s pretty cool ;P BU_

_[2:55 AM] Am I holding you back from the party? BU_

_[2:57 AM] no, no, nothing can hold me back from a party I want to be a part of :P it’s just a record release party for some baby band. Things are dying down now anyways, I might head out soon. RR_

He’s trying to make me feel special, I know he is. He’s trying to butter me up and make me feel like I’m not just some guy that he’ll discard as soon as the shoot is over. Who knows maybe before then. I hate him for it. I hate knowing that I am in no way a valuable asset to him, but worst of all? God, undoubtedly the worst of all is that it’s working.

 

_[2:58 AM] I’m experiencing some weird feelings. BU_

_[2:59 AM] Two hours ago, I hated you and now you’re moderately tolerable. ;P BU_

_[3:00 AM] If it makes you feel any better I don’t get any better than ‘moderately tolerable’ so at least your whiplash won’t be TOO bad. RR_

_[3:02 AM] Lmao, thanks for the heads up. I don’t think my little neck could take anything too wicked. BU_

_[3:05 AM] Don’t thank me, it was selfish really, I mean I ruined the surprise just to ensure you wouldn’t be in a neck brace for my album cover. RR_

 

He’s so self aware it’s borderline unnerving, he knows that he’s an ass. He knows that he’s not entirely likable, he knows that I’m here to do a job. He has full awareness of the situation and I almost feel like I’m missing something. Something is slipping under my radar and leaving him with the upper hand and I don’t know what to do with that. But i know I have to let it go, I just have to stop thinking if only for a minute. For just a minute I need to just be. I’ll crack a joke. Surely that’ll help. Surely that’ll get me somewhere. I can play this game. I can be good at this game. I can win this game. What does winning even mean? Maybe if I repeat it enough I’ll believe it.

 

_[3:06 AM] hey, hey, don’t be so quick to judge here. I could make a neck brace look sexy. BU_

 

_[3:07 AM] frankly? I don’t doubt that. But all the same ‘sexy cripple’ isn’t exactly the look I’m going for ;* RR_

_[3:08 AM[ I know, it’s sexy androgynous cripple. :P BU_

_[3:09 AM] BRILLIANT! You’re the new art director, congratulations. RR_

_[3:10 AM] Not as fulfilling as I’d hoped but hey- at least it pays better. :P BU_

Nothing is as fulfilling as you’d think they’d be. But I can’t say that. I surely can’t say that this conversation is far beyond how fulfilling I anticipated it to be. It’s fun, it’s playful, he’s interesting, I’m smiling, I’m laughing. I don’t trust him, but I don’t have to.

 

_[3:10 AM] Excuse me sir, if you have a problem with your pay you can take it up with management. RR_

_[3:10 AM] Oh hey! That’s me! :* RR_

_[3:12 AM] lol right. Because i’m going to say, ‘hey, I want a 5% raise’ and you’re gonna be like ‘hey, I’m getting a new model’. BU_

_[3:14 AM] pffffffft, I’m emotionally attached, I’m sure we could work something out. RR_

_[3:16 AM] WAIT you haven’t even gotten the contract yet! You don’t even know what you’re getting paid. Lmao  RR_

_[3:17 AM] #exposed BU_

_[3:20 AM] ‘no idea how much i’m getting paid-- but I guarantee it ain’t enough to deal with this pain in the ass’ lmaoooo RR_

_[3:21 AM] See! You understand the logic. You get it. To think all of you Hollywooders were just airheads full of botox and silicone. BU_

 

Yeah. To think, right? He’s more than that, he’s more than a name on the front of an album that somebody else paid to produce. He’s more than money and fame, he’s more than the Hollywood dream. He’s Ryan. He’s full of poetry, and sass, and cheesy one liners. He makes me laugh.

 

And God knows how long it’s been since I’ve laughed.

 

We text until sunrise. The sky turns yellow and pink, and birds start to twitter outside my window, but the world could have been screaming and I wouldn’t have noticed. We through my morning routine, we text through the bus ride down to the restaurant, and we text into my shift, and it was even worth the headache that I ended up with after my boss yelled at me for being on my phone on the job. It was beyond worth it, because he makes me _laugh_.

 

I’ve missed laughing.

 

And god, I hope he keeps it up.


	2. II

** Ryan **

 

I believe that everyone reaches a point in their lives where they see themselves as full, complete, accomplished, or peaked. Whether this opinion of oneself is simply delusional, or completely justified is not the point. It’s really about an individual reaching a state of self gratification that they honestly believe that they are not capable of transcending. I, Ryan Ross, believe that I have peaked. This doesn’t scare me. Typically reaching a peak implies a subsequent decline, and I don’t possess any fear of such a thing.

 

There are a million reasons that a person can arrive at the pinnacle of their growth. Mine are… perhaps more complex than that of the average bear, but not without reason. Allow me to explain;  I’m 24 and working on my third studio album. I consider myself blessed-- or cursed, depending on your outlook-- with fame and fortune beyond what most can even dream. I became a millionaire by the age of 21 and the money just continued to fall at my feet faster than I could spend it. I don’t have anything tying me down. That’s not to say that I’m a nomad, by any means, I just don’t see the reward in letting something that I have obvious and complete control over dictate how and where I am at any given time. Simply put, I do what I want.  I’m constantly faced with parties for other artists’ promotions who found my presence alone to be enough to launch their career to the next level. Women throw themselves at me, men throw themselves at me, and everyone in between does just the same. I could have anything I wanted, anyone I wanted, any time I wanted,  and I do.  It’s a brilliant and enchanting reality to be faced with, I’d say.

 

I love my life. 

 

Don’t be modest. You would too.

 

Sometimes this realization of my reality hits me at the most inconvenient moments. For me it’s a defense mechanism. For example; picture Pete Wentz droning on and on about something I don’t care about. He owns and operates the label I’m signed to, Broken Boogie Records, and I guess that gives him a seriously annoying case of little-big-man-syndrome. He thinks he’s important. I don’t, really.  It’s almost like the success I have made for myself isn’t enough of an indicator that I have a clue what I am doing. Sure, maybe he could say he built this empire for me, but I know he is  wrong and that’s what matters. 

 

“Ryan- are you even listening to me?” he snaps in my face, I hate when he does that. Like he has some kind of power over me. It reigns me in from my daydreaming to realize just how unfortunate the present moment is. Like I previously stated, zoning out is  a coping mechanism to shelter myself from the rain of complete bullshit spilling from Pete’s mouth.

 

I give a dissatisfied huff, and yank my feet from the top of the mahogany desk. “No, actually I’m not. Thanks for asking, though.  _ So _ thoughtful of you.” I retort. My shoulders lift, and I extend my arms back over my head with my spine stretching and popping with immediate relief. 

 

“Should I restart--? Or...” he looks at me with an exasperated sort of expression on his ugly mug. I know he thinks I’m a pain in the ass, which granted I technically  _ am _ . But the thing is, I am the  _ only _ artist bringing in any kind of decent money into his label. Now that’s nothing ill towards the other artists that he has signed, I’m sure they’re lovely. It’s just that...You know. Sales speak for themselves, and I’m selling out Madison Square Garden multiple nights in a row, while they’re lucky to pack a club. This means that Pete can’t really afford to piss me off. Not that I could leave his label by any means. Or that I want to, really. I mean-- the guy gives me anything I want because he’s afraid to lose me, because like any other shark in the damn business, Pete’s in it to make a buck off of my intellectual property. But I’m locked in with a contract, and even though a lawsuit really wouldn’t put a dent in my wallet, I’d honestly rather be putting my time to better uses than having a battle royale with Pete in the walls of a courtroom. Pete’s staunchy enough. I don’t think I’d be able to tolerate a fucking lawyer in my ear too. 

 

“No-- don’t bother.” I sigh, flippantly waving a hand as if to brush him off. “I get it. You’re a prick who doesn’t think gender is--” 

 

“Appropriate for an album concept.” he says flatly, completing my sentence. I was going to go with something more along the lines of ‘relevant’ or ‘an issue’.   

 

I let out an exasperated breath, and reach out to tinker with a small figurine that sits proudly beside a photo of Pete’s family. He snatches it away from me, probably to display his insistence that I pay attention. “Right. So-- because I-” motioning to myself as I lean back properly into my seat, “don’t know anything about what is and is not appropriate for my album concept, I should probably just scratch the entire thing and start over. That’s what you’re saying.” Of course, the sarcasm tainting my tone made it no mystery just how much of  _ not _ an option that was. 

 

“That’s  _ exactly _ what I’m saying.” He replies. He crosses his tattooed arms across his chest, and turns to face me as I lift myself from the comfortable leather seat in favour of wandering around his office. I’ve never understood why he had an office. I mean, it’s not like he ever does any actual work anyway. 

 

He leans against his desk, crossing his feet at the ankles. “You’re dealing with the public Ryan, you’re not limited to millennials with a self serving agenda- they’re not all ‘socially conscious’ or whatever it is. Your target market is  _ massive _ , dude. And you’re cutting out a good 60% of it. I mean, come on, man. You really think that middle aged, devout Christian, Susan from Burbank really wants her 12 year old daughter listening to this….Drivel? The reality is Ryan, Susan has the money, and Susan doesn’t like--” He clears his throat to begin speaking, to start belittling my lyrics and wash them out with the disgusting film of his own tongue clicking against his teeth to form words like he was worthy of uttering them, “‘ _ Gender roles impose control and deceive progressive times Welcome to the land of the broken minds _ ’ I can feel the wallets shutting already, Ryan! The album hasn’t even dropped yet!”  

“Fuck off.” I snap with an eyeroll. I pick up one of the trinkets that sat atop his bookshelf to occupy my hands. After the issue at his desk I can feel his annoyance through the back of my skull, why can’t I just keep my hands to myself..  He probably thinks these things make him look smart, like some kind of mentor with the Newton’s cradle that implies wisdom. Really, it just makes him look cluttered and disheveled.  _ Ultra _ professional- Not.

 

“First thing’s first, Pete, if you think I give half of a fuck about Susan, you’re wrong.Who gives a shit about the general public--” I toss the cradle, which causes a painful clattering sound to ring through the office when I spin on my heels to face him. “I don’t-- this is a message I want to send out. It’s something I’m proud of and passionate about. Toxicity is getting taped as is.” I wasn’t going to just scrap an  _ entire  _ album because ‘Pete Fuckin Wentz’ in all of his whiskey soaked, collagen injected, hollywood loving glory doesn’t like it. My career was  _ mine _ to dictate. Or so I continued to insist to believe. 

 

In that moment, you could literally see some kind of snap in Pete’s mind. Like if I were to punch his buttons a few more times, the big vein in his forehead would just burst. It was comical, and I lived for it, really. 

 

“Fine- we’ll just shelf the record.” He says with a shrug. Like it’s some kind of threat. We both know it’s more of a bluff. 

 

I, honest to God, cannot keep myself from laughing. And as the sound of my laughter fills the cramped office, I can see it. The little light fading from Pete’s beady little rat eyes as he realizes that his threat has fallen flat with me.

 

“Please,” I scoff when I’m finally able to compose myself. A subsequent eyeroll follows. “You can’t just  _ shelf _ my album, genius. The label would go under. You’d spend  _ thousands _ just to put out another one.  Why? All because what? You’re worried my politics will offend a few moms? That’s funny Pete. No, really-- it is. Didn’t you hear me laughing a second ago? Or is your head so far up your ass that you can’t hear me either. Because that would actually make at least  _ some _ sense as to why you really think that I’m about to tolerate your literal idiocy. Toxicity stays, and we start shooting the cover next week. I’ve already commissioned some sketches.” I can’t help but smile. I knew I’d bested him. He knows it too-- he knows he has no power over me and it drives him wild. 

 

“We have the photographer booked for two weeks from now.” So not only did he presently know I had bested him, but past-Pete knew I would. Past-Pete realized that I would, so he booked the photographer, despite the fight he was intending to pick. Anticipation of a loss.  _ Interesting. _

 

“So…” I extended my index finger and moved it in small, concentric circles. “This? This little… I don’t know-- outburst you’re having? Was it, dare I say… All for  _ nothing _ ?” The smirk plastered on my lips is sly, and my pride is sky high. 

 

“Wipe that fucking grin off your face, Ross. Absolutely nothing about the model profile you requested was special to begin with, and you didn’t need a special photographer. Maybe you should lay off the weed, man, because I thought I made it pretty clear that even if I didn’t shelf the album, you’d be shooting a cover for something else. Get over your damn self.”

 

He could believe that all I want to but I knew Peter had submit to me in advance. 

 

“So my talent request wasn’t anything special-- any responses?” I asked, veiling my eagerness. This is my first album where I really get to take control, the first album where I get to have my say on anything and everything that has my name on it. This album is my baby, granted, all my albums are what I called my children, but let’s be honest, all parents have a favorite. 

 

Pete sighed, letting himself relax from the tension that had previously filled the room and moved over to his desk to dig out a file. So maybe he did do a little bit of work. Or maybe his assistant, Patrick, did it all and put it on his desk for him to put his name on it. Regardless, a stack of models were waiting for me. Not literally. Though a man can dream.

 

I snatched up the file of headshots and returned to my seat, excited to flip through the photos. “You look at them already?” 

 

“Obviously-- I’m not letting you pick without having done a little filtering first.” he scoffed sitting back in his proper seat across from me. We actually look like professionals for a change. He craned his neck to see if he could get a look at the papers I had in my lap off the desk. “I--” I was rapidly flipping through the pages as he put up a finger to stop me, “I-- the top-- Ryan-- the top ones, I-- I did some of the leg work.” 

 

“Right, and I’m going to take your word on what’s aesthetically pleasing. Very funny. You’ve been quite the comedian today. Is that a career change I sense on the horizon?” 

I roll my eyes, essentially putting the ones that were clearly the headshots that Pete had chosen aside. Could those models have done a perfectly fine job? Sure. Was it also out of spite, and not true, honest, fair rejection? Absolutely. 

“I mean, Peter… You  _ actually  _ thought Gabriel was going to be a teen heartthrob?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow. I toss the headshot over my shoulder when Pete takes a breath to make a comment. I look back down at the stack and finally stop. Found them.

 

“This one.” I say, taking out the headshot and placing it down on the counter and turning it around for Pete to see. I was immediately captivated by this person. Seriously, it felt like the instant my eyes landed on this headshot I was overcome with interest and intrigue. I needed them on the cover of my album. They had kind eyes and big pouty lips. They had a certain element of masculinity and femininity all wrapped into one person that I needed for the cover of this album. 

 

“This guy?” Pete asked in disbelief, “Are you serious-- he--” I put up a finger, cutting him off and lifted the headshot to take a look at the resume attached, to confirm the specifics. 

 

“Yes, this guy.” I affirmed. “I want him. I don’t need to call anyone else back for go sees. I don’t care. I want him.” I push my finger down into the forehead of the photo. “Brandon-- wait... Brendon.” I corrected. I was convinced. 

 

“Did you just--? Did you just flip through all the headshots I picked out-- did you just know? Somehow? Jesus Ryan-- you’re a real pain in my ass.” He grumbled frustratedly, snatching the sheet of paper from my hands to take a proper look at the resume himself.

 

“God-- Ryan, he doesn’t even have any experience at all. Are you-- you’re not serious about this. I mean sure Ryan, it’s very funny. You got back at me and all-- but good  _ lord _ , this is just childish.” Pete was too absorbed in bitching at me while looking over the resume to realize that I had ended up enthralled in my phone. I browsed until I found his instagram and all the stunning photos on it. He was perfect for the job. He enveloped everything that was the album’s message, and he knew how to paint his face like a professional too. What more could you ask for when trying to cast an album like Toxicity. An album about the drain of masculinity on our youth and the confines of gender. He was going to be the face of my piece of the revolution, and I couldn’t ask for anyone better. 

 

“I don’t give a shit and a half, Pete. if he’s not at the shoot next week-- I’m… fuck, I don’t even know.” I was exasperated as I desperately attempted to come up with some kind of threat. 

 

“Alright-- alright-- just take a breath, would ya?” He grumbled rubbing out his brow, “don’t hurt yourself-- I’ll let his agent know-- Beckett…” he said reading over the name, old man almost had to put on readers. “God is he with Flushed Management? Ryan this guy  _ is not _ a professional.” he emphasized like I hadn’t already heard him. 

 

“Shut up--” I said standing up and throwing my jacket on flipping the collar back down. I turn to leave. 

 

“You’re coming to the party tonight, right?” Pete interrupts my exit. Which I find annoying because of course I’m coming to the party. I’ve never been one to miss a party and he knows it. So really, in the end, is there  _ really _ no such thing as a stupid question? 

 

“Of course I am,” I say with an eyeroll taking a slight moment of hesitation to fix my hair in my reflection of his office window. “Do us both a favor-- never hold a meeting the morning of a party-- also never hold a meeting when you can text me instead. Save us both a little time-- and you a little embarrassment,” I take a step back to let my gaze pass through my own reflection and out to the scenery outside. Los Angeles is alive and it’s breathing for me. The city is it’s own life force and and I live for the city. Pete doesn’t deserve a view such as this. I wonder if I could take over this office. Turning around and laying eyes on Pete I take a moment to log away that thought before I shoot him a wink and exit the room. 

 

I can’t help but fall asleep when I arrive home. That’s just the reality of this business. If you’re not a night owl you won’t make it. So of course when Pete told me he needed me in his office at 9 a.m. the reasonable thing to do was to stay awake until then. With my baby girl, Dottie, beside me and no disturbance to be heard. Not another person, not a phone call, nothing, just the silence of my own home. I’m pretty sure this is what heaven is like. Me, my dog, and Alexa. Alexa makes it so no moment goes silent which I think is a blessing in this life. It’s like my entire life has a soundtrack.(Alexa is the name of Amazon Echo, for those who are wondering. A little bit like Siri, but smarter. Don’t tell Siri I said that.) 

 

Which makes every passing moment of my life feel like a montage from a movie, which of course is what my getting ready routine turns into. A ferris bueller esque- shower number, a pretty woman makeover, except I’m the millionaire not the whore. 

 

I take a moment to step back after I have successfully danced my way around my house into a completed look which involves one of my more relaxed attires. Channeling my true indie self-- with earth tones, a button up, vest, and brown jeans. I am the epitome of what the people will expect from Ryan Ross. Which is just who needs to show up to this party. You gotta give the people what they want, and they want Ryan Ross in earth tones and a fedora and hemp bracelets. Because that’s just the kind of jackass I am. In all reality, anybody should be thankful that I’m self aware enough to be able to recognize and admit it. 

 

I take a moment to take a step back and take in the entirety of my appearance, I make eye contact with my reflection and for a split second I see  _ her _ . I shake my head disregarding this and collect my wallet and keys to leave. 

 

“Alright, Ms. Dot--” I kneel down and take ahold of her face, but she’s restless and won’t give me the proper loving I deserve. “Is it dinner time?”  I ask with a sigh and stand again to follow her down the stairs to feed her in the kitchen. Yes, I live in a two story one bedroom house, I renovated a wing of the place to put in a studio. Why would I have a guest bedroom? Everyone I know worth inviting over stays within a ten minute drive, I’m not going to house a family here, unless you count my family of instruments. (Of course they’re a family; Jace the bass, Glenda the Gibson, and Chuck the uke. Don’t be silly.) So why not renovate the place to cater to my career? 

 

I give Dottie a scoop of food in her dish before patting her back and heading towards the door, I can’t help but straighten my Grammy award while I’m at it. There’s a thin layer of dust blanketing the surface and I roll my eyes, making a mental note to remind Monica to pay attention to my little shelf of pride. I shouldn’t really be having to make these mental notes-- Monica should just  _ know _ . If she doesn’t-- then what am I really paying her for anyway? 

 

“I expect this place spic and span when I get back, Dot!” I call, leaving the Monica issue at the door. No need to shoulder bad vibes at a party. “If you want to keep staying here rent free-- you’re going to have to start pulling your weight--” I can’t help but chuckle, shaking my head to myself. I’m my own biggest fan. “She’s a dog…” I mutter as if to explain myself the punchline. I pull out my phone and lock the house via app before hopping into my lamborghini and head to the BKB2 record house. 

 

I walk into the party-- I’m fashionably late of course-- and I can instantly feel the room brighten with my presence. Now… and  _ only _ now… can the party truly start. I take a deep breath and the air burns in my lungs because the air in itself is laced, it’s laced just like every piece of this business, it’s laced with sin. I am alive for it. 

 

I love my life.  

 

* * *

 

 

I like to think that what makes a good party in my neck of the woods, a truly good party, is the atmosphere. Let’s be real here. The crowds that I run with would rather contract polio than set foot in anything less than a four star venue. Then again, dive bars ought to put a warning sign on their doors. WARNING: DISEASE RAMPANT ON THESE PREMISES.

 

Thank God that I don’t have to deal with anything quite as dingy. The places that we like to hang around are always classy. And that’s once again made apparent to me as I step through the doors of Angels & Kings, and see the wide variety of people who’re all interacting and mingling already. It’s nice that they’re all talking-- I encourage conversation, after all. But every one of these people know that a party doesn’t really start until I get there. 

 

As my eyes scan the room, I’m immediately served with a drink by a man in a bowtie and a dress shirt, toting around a silver tray of champagne. I nod to him, but my eyes are focused in on a particularly vivacious blonde near the centre of the room. My eyes lick their way up her body, ogling her tanned legs, narrow waist, and pert breasts. She’s sexy, and I could definitely see myself getting into trouble with her. 

 

I’ve got it in my mind to go chat her up, when Pete arrives. He claps me on the shoulder, and by the time I manage to get my gaze fixated back on the area where she once was, her space is now unoccupied. I sigh, and look back to Pete. He greets me with warm eyes and a charming smile. And I make nice with him, only because I have to if I have any hope of actually enjoying my time tonight. 

 

I don’t immediately settle in when Pete leaves. I wander at first. I see just who made it. I see who brought who. I see who’s mingling with who. I see it all. I know the ins and the outs of this industry. I know what’s what. I know who’s what. I know what’s hot. I know most importantly who’s hot. I am the king, and this is my kingdom. Everything the light touches is mine, the plethora of soft lights decorating the place means the light touches an awful lot. 

 

I greet people I pretend are my friends, and they pretend I’m their friend. Mainly because it’s more convenient for the both of us to be friends than it is for us to not. It’s more of an agreement of back-scratching than kinship. We have a mutual understanding that under any circumstance: we defend one another’s name in the face of the media, under any given circumstance to screw over one’s friend it is understood that you will not. The lines are still blurry on that aspect, however, at some point you begin to wonder just what is considered screwing one over. Does that really mean that if their girlfriend is interested in me that I have to keep my distance? I see that more as said girlfriend doing the screwing over, especially when screwing me. Really, how could it be my fault if they’re the one with pledged loyalty. Screwing one-- and screwing one’s girlfriend are not synonymous. 

 

My voice comes across the speakers and you can hear an uproar of the crowd and at staggered times people around the room start taking drinks. If someone’s song that is on the guest list come on from pandora, everyone takes shots, well except the artist, because let’s face it, they’re suffering enough as is. I lift an imaginary glass to the people around me, to which Gabe is appalled and immediately fills my hand with a glass. I’m confused for a moment as I remember the waiter giving me one earlier, I wonder where I had misplaced it. I, like anyone else, am fond of liquor but my vice of choice has always been of a smokey variety. 

 

“Look-- I know you’re Gabe and being the refill catcher is your thing-- but Jesus man-- try again--” That’s enough  to get Max, the new kid, to get a joint between my fingertips, followed by a lighter resting between the others. This may be his release party, but I’m the guest of honor. I am to be served and pleased. I could suggest his record on social media. He could then, in result, have mass sales that week. I am in charge. 

 

Gabe is less likely to fold to my wishes, he rolls his eyes at my snide remark and takes a seat with  some red haired guy practically hanging off of him, I hardly bat an eye as I sit back and partake in the festivities. I breathe in a hit of my sweet mistress Mary Jane and relax back into the leather seats and let her take her toll on me.  I play the games, which means I laugh at the jokes and gasp at the stories. I take it all in. I feel my batteries charging. I feel my heart beating. 

 

People are laughing. People are talking. People are sinning. 

 

I am at peace. 

 

I am frustrated to be interrupted in the middle of Adam’s story when Zach is over my shoulder with my cellphone, “Someone is trying to reach you-- you left it in the bathroom--” 

 

“Zachary-- for fuck’s sake--” I huff turning around the leather squeaks beneath my skin, the world is dragging. Good ol’ Max brought the good shit. Mary Jane was no cheap whore, “Can’t you deal with it? What am I even paying you for--” I pluck my phone from his fingertips.   

 

I hear him grumble as he turns to walk away, “Security doesn’t mean secretary, Ryan.”  I’m sure he didn’t intend for me to hear. I did, doesn’t matter, I don’t care. 

 

Even still, I deal with the intruder myself, opening my messages to find a message from an unknown number. The light from my phone is overwhelming and intrusive in the dark room  which makes the disturbance even more distasteful. 

 

_ [10:37 pm] Is this Ryan Ross? BU _

 

Using this as an opening line immediately strikes me as odd, anyone who has my number should know who they’re referring to. You don’t find it online. You don’t ask someone casually ‘hey do you have Ryan Ross’s number’ and they think they might know it, just to spout out some digits and you hope that maybe your message gets through. That’s not how this works. My number sacred. It’s something to be cherished like money, because it basically is. So to be receiving a text, at 11 PM on a saturday in the midst of a party  _ I _ was bringing to life, was raising just about a thousand red flags. 

 

_ [11:12 pm] Anyone who doesn’t know shouldn’t have this number. RR _

 

_ [11:15 pm]  I’m sorry. Uh, I’m Brendon. I’m working with you in a couple weeks here. My agent gave me your number. BU _

 

Brendon… Brendon who? I know Brendon who, Brendon Urie, I saw his portfolio that morning of course I knew. But damnit, if you’re going to be texting someone about business use your full name damnit. Your name is your brand. Your brand is your power. 

 

_ [11:16 PM] Ok? What do you want? RR _ _   
_ _ [11:16 PM] Nice portfolio by the way. RR  _

 

_ [11:19 PM] I just thought I’d text you to see what your vision was for the project. I dunno. Thought it’d be cool to connect on it so we could create something cohesive. BU _ _   
_ _ [11:20 PM] Thank you, by the way. I appreciate it. BU _

 

Why the fuck was he so timid? He knew what he wanted and it was damn time he came out and got it. You want to talk about the cover. You want to ask about the album, so fucking say so. You do know, stop acting like you don’t. Damn well he should appreciate it, if he rocks this gig I could change his life, his portfolio wasn’t that impressive, he’d clearly never gotten any big jobs before. My album cover? My recommendation? Life changing. He should be kissing my ass. He should be trying to  _ impress _ which he certainly wasn’t. I elbow Pete in the rib to get his attention, before I lean over to show him the messages. We can’t help but laugh, he’s trying to give me some sort of ‘I told you so’ pitch. Which I naturally tune out. 

 

“Shut the fuck up, man-- I’m dealing with it alright? I’ll put him in his place--” I roll my eyes and start immediately tapping out my message. 

 

_ [11:22 PM] So set up a meeting with me. Don’t text me without knowing who you’re reaching out to at 11 pm on a saturday. I’m busy. Party. This is extremely unprofessional. RR  _

_ [11:22 PM] Not to mention I probably would be exchanging words with your agent on what the vision is. Ya know… like always. It’s not like you get thrown into the project blind. RR  _

_ [11:23 PM] Maybe I should be impressed with your drive. Who knows. RR  _

 

_ [11:25 PM] I mean, of course you’re gonna talk to William about it. But I dunno, I’ve always thought that working with the talent directly makes for a more meaningful project. BU _ _   
_ _ [11:27 PM] And I was well aware of who I was texting at 11 PM on a Saturday evening. The music industry lives at night, better this than 8 am. This was a conscious decision.  BU _

 

There he goes again! ‘I dunno’ unbelievable. How does he actually expect to bring a meaningful presence to set if he doesn’t have a meaningful presence at all. He does know. Just come forward and tell me. Assert yourself. ‘Working with the talent makes for a more impactful performance and increased client satisfaction’ I can respect that. I don’t care what you  _ think _ I care what you  _ know _ and you know how you work. At least I would hope you do. Pathetic. We continue to laugh as the topic of the unprofessional model spreads around the circle. 

 

_ [11:28 PM] Whatever. The vision is androgynous. It’s going to be classy as fuck. The album is about how toxic masculinity can be. So do with that as you will. RR  _

 

_ [11:29 PM] Was that so hard? BU _

_ [11:30 PM] Sorry to interrupt your soiree with my unprofessionalism. Maybe I’ll take a class on it or something. BU _

_ [11:31 PM] Soiree is French for party, by the way. Ce n’est pas que vous le savez. BU _

 

My laughter stops at that. He’s insulting me. I like it. It’s about damn time he shows some sort of presence in this conversation. 

 

_ [11:31 PM]  It was actually, physically painful, yes. And stop talking down to me in French. If you want to make it as a model then you probably should, not everyone will be as understanding as me. RR _

 

_ [11:33 PM] I don’t see what’s unprofessional about casual conversation. BU _ _   
_ _ [11:34 PM] Ah, vous parlez francais? BU _

_ [11:34 PM]  _ _ Je suis impressionné. Mais je ne vous vois pas m'impressionner au-delà. BU _

 

I can actually feel his condescension in the type that lights up my phone screen. A grin spreads across my face. He’s finally come to the dog fight and is willing to participate. This, _ this _ is the kind of man I want to work with. This is the kind of man I can see presenting my album to the world. This is the kind of man I want. Period. End of story. 

 

As I determine a course of action for  _ dealing _ with him. I know I’m full of shit. I know I won’t be replacing him any time soon. I know I want him. I  _ know. _

 

_ [11:36 PM] Fortunately for you, I don’t care enough to open up Google Translate. Your contract hasn’t been written yet. You’re easily replaceable. RR _

_ [11:38 PM] And yet, you care enough to sit here and argue with me. BU _

_ [11:38 PM} I’m replaceable, yeah. But judging by the time from the submission of my portfolio to when my agent got the news, I’d say I made off with this job in a clean sweep. An idiot could infer that choosing me wasn’t a hard decision for you. Nevertheless, it is your project. So if you wish to replace me, that’s entirely your prerogative. However, I can’t be liable then for the… Shall we say….Lesser quality? BU _

 

He sees my bluff. He calls it. 

 

_ [11:53 pm] You win. RR  _

_ [11:53 PM] Is there anything else you need from me, or can I go back to enjoying my company? RR  _

 

_ [11:54 PM] I need respect from you, for starters. Last time I checked, the most unprofessional thing that you could do is talk down to your ‘employees’. BU _ _   
_ _ [11:55 PM] Let’s get one thing straight, here, Ross. You are not God because you have more zeroes in your bank account. I’ll see you at the shoot. BU _

 

He raises. 

 

I fold. 

 


	3. III

** Ryan **

 

Red lips and artesian wine can bring any man to his knees.

Huh. Artesian. That sounds like a word _he’d_ say. I can picture his lips wrapping around the word like a warm hug. Or a vice around my throat. I can’t quite decipher which.

But he’s not here right now. She is. She’s got lips like she just kissed a rose. Individual petals- red, soft, and luscious.  Her blonde curls wave down to her collarbone, each of them neat and tidy. When she cranes her neck to the left, she’s looking out at the ocean that the restaurant borders. A hickey rests on her neck, just below her ear. She wants me to see it. Wants me to be jealous. Maybe she’s trying to make sure I don’t get any ideas. Maybe she’s proving a point: this game we’ve been playing isn’t over. Maybe she’s trying to tell me she won after all. That’s why she’s looked out at the water twenty-three times as if something grandiose is about to happen. Like she knows something I don’t. Perhaps Godzilla is going to emerge from the depths of the ocean and destroy Nobu and all of Los Angeles in a tirade, all to prove a point, show off this mark.

I can only hope.

She lifts her glass to her lips, and I watch. It’s almost like watching a God damn movie. I know it’s choreographed. How delicate her fingers look poised on the stem of the glass. How alluring her lips look on the rim. She knows it’s choreographed. The way I put a hand through my hair, brushing it from my face. How my hands look peeking through the strands.

“How long have you been a model?” I ask. I don’t care- not really. I’m only asking to eliminate the silence thickening the air between us. To give me some room to breathe.

She doesn’t answer right away. She sets the glass down and looks out at the water again. Hm, Godzilla must be late.

“Since I was about fourteen.”

She continues speaking, but I’m not listening. I’m swallowing her whole with my eyes. She’s a skinny woman. Naturally, if she’s a model. She looks wispy in that southern Californian sort of way that makes me want to devour her. And I intend to. Dinner is simply a formality.

My phone screen lights up on the table beside my hand, the vibration rattling the table. I promised myself I’d be more keen to turning that off, but it’s beginning to seem like maybe I like the interruption. Her story is going on and on. I’m not sure when the question ‘how long have you been a model’ warranted a detailed history of her career, broken down job to job, big break to big break.

Maybe she’s just too much of a coward to let the silence rest.

If every break is big what is it really worth? I’m not interested enough to stay engaged, during her rambling, I look down at the glowing name and subsequent message on my screen.

It’s Him.

_[5:24 PM] God-- old people are the worst, they’re a pain in my ass to serve and are cheap tippers. I’m about to go home, curl up with my baby and eat some pasta and forget about my issues, well try at least. Can’t blame a guy for trying. BU_

It’s _Him_ , with the big brown eyes and the lips that Aphrodite herself shaped. The cupid’s bow that fired the arrow into my back.

Just like that. Magic. I don’t give a shit about Elizabeth’s half-assed career. I don’t care how she got her first gig (even though it’s pretty apparent that it involved a man twice her age). Not that I did before him, but now, now I have something worth my attention.  

All that’s consuming my mind is _H_ _im_.

“Everything okay?” she asks. Her voice is that sort of high pitched twitter that a songbird makes in the morning glow. Her voice is clearly an attempt to make her seem interesting, make her desirable, as if she wasn’t already. I wonder if she really is, or if it’s the mind games that make me believe she’s interesting. I wonder if it’s her lack of desire in me that makes me invest it in her. I start to think that it may be the case. She can sense me drifting from her grasp.

My eyes shift back up to hers, and she’s still sitting there in all her ruby lipped glory. Still. As if in the time it had taken me to glance down, she had somehow morphed into Brendon Urie. What a lovely transformation that’d be.

But it wouldn’t be possible. Her skinny body would burst with the change— It couldn’t contain _half_ of Brendon’s personality.

“Just work,” I reply, half heartedly. She knows I’m lying. She must. Surely she can’t be that thick. Maybe she thinks it’s my next move, in response to the hickey. _I won’t get any ideas as long as you don’t either_. “You know how it is.” It’s not a move though, I just truly and honestly have more important things to attend to.

With one finger I swiftly unlock my phone and type out a series of emojis. Pasta, a pup, and a smile.

“Go on,” I tell her as if to assure her that my attention is still lying with her. It never did. It laid with the shape of her. Her breasts and perky ass. Her lips and how they would look doing anything but talking.

She continues, but I’m not with her. I’m with Brendon in his apartment that I’m still a stranger to. I’m with him while he eats pasta with his dog. I’m with him, with my eyes fixed on those lips, listening to every word that spills from his beautiful mouth like it’s the fucking Gospel. I’m listening, I’m transfixed by the way his lips move with every syllable, the way his tongue flicks across his teeth to make his point. I don’t want him to stop talking.

What the hell is happening to me?

_[5:30 PM] Let’s get coffee. We can talk about the shoot, and you can tell me why you like those stupid lattes. RR_

“Anyways, enough about me,” she says cheerily, leaning back as the waiter places her plate in front of her. It’s like she thinks that maybe making it about me will reign me back in, “What about you? When did you start writing music?”

She speaks as if she has a right to know anything about me. As if she deserves to know when I wrote my first song, or what I wrote it about. She doesn’t. Music and getting in front of the camera are not the same. One is catering to people's’ love and loss, the other purely lust. She’s lucky she gets to hear my music at all, hearing the specifics is an over step of boundaries-- and frankly, how dare she.

“When I was 16.” I tell her. It’s a lie of course. But it’s part of the boxed and packaged image that I sell to the media. Started as a roadie at sixteen. Learned the craft. Got discovered. Here I am. All of it a steaming pile of bullshit of course. I don’t think that even Pete knows the real story. I’m not sure anyone knows, nor will they.  

She nods, prodding for me to continue. And I feed her lie after lie, laughing at the appropriate parts, sighing at the others. It’s a goddamn stage play, Charlie Brown! I’m an actor in my own life. Isn’t that something?

I’m midway telling her about my first guitar when my phone buzzes again. The table vibrates with an unpleasant sound, and again, she looks down at the screen. “They just can’t get enough of you, can they?” She jokes with a bubbly smile. It’s not a joke, she’s on to me, she’s demanding I put it away, maybe she’s realizing it wasn’t my next move.

When my eyes follow Elizabeth’s, they’re met with words of rejection. Scrawled in black and white is a bold-faced rejection with Brendon’s name proudly placed atop it.

_[5:32 pm] Yeah, I’m gonna have to catch a raincheck on that one, Rockstar. See, I’ve joined a cult of beauty queens. Number one rule? Don’t go for coffee with strangers. Seriously! I’d show you the rule book, but then I’d have to kill you. ;) BU_

The bubble of text stares at me, and for a moment, I am unaware what to do. I’m frozen staring at it, wondering why the fuck somebody like him shot somebody like me down in cold blood, and why the _fuck_ does it turn me on.

I don’t reply. I can’t bring myself to. Instead, I eat my dinner faster than it takes Elizabeth to finish another story about some miscellaneous garbage that I don’t care about, and then we’re in the back of my car, her panties are around her ankles, and my fingers are inside of her warm folds.

When I lick my lips, I taste his name, not hers. When she moans, I hear his voice, not hers. It’s driving me insane. She wants me to fuck her. The need is laced in her voice when she whines my name desperately. She’s a professional. A serial philanderer. This is part of her stage play too, and I can smell it on her. Maybe that’s just the musk emanating from the heat between her legs.

My phone lights up again. It’s on the floor in the backseat, where she’s splayed out for me. It’s him again. He’s sent me some photo of himself with his dog and a bowl of spaghetti, and I swear that the damn picture should be framed and placed in the Louvre next to the fucking Mona Lisa. With the hand that isn’t busy pleasing Elizabeth, I reach down to send back a series of emojis. The ones with the heart eyes, as if that could encapsulate half of what I felt when I looked at that picture.

No sooner had I pressed send was there a burn on my cheek and a heel in my sternum. “Are you fucking kidding me?” She screeches, pulling her panties up her thighs. “Do you always ‘text work’ while you’re fucking someone?” She asks, but I know she has no intention of sticking around to listen to the answer.

“Un-fucking-believable, Ryan Ross. I hope you choke.” She seethes, grasping for the door handle. And in one swift motion, she’s gone. I sit up and watch her through the tinted rear window of the car. Her slim frame is disappearing into the night, and I find myself not caring much. I had pursued her for months. I had found her at parties hanging off of men I considered to be friends, and I flirted with her. I tried to get her to want me for ages, and nothing worked. She wanted nothing to do with me, and I suppose that that was naturally why I wanted her so desperately.

Why I want the man in the phone so desperately.

I try not to think about it. I start my car and drive through unfamiliar neighbourhoods. Neon lights and street walkers blur my peripheral vision as I focus on the two solid yellow lines that carry me from the alleyway where we’d parked all the way back to Santa Monica. There’s texts on my phone, friends asking me how the night with Elizabeth went. I read them, but choose not to answer. Instead, I feed the dog, and lock myself in my bedroom and jerk off to the image of her that I had for a brief moment. I could have thought about Brendon. But it feels wrong. Like a shirt that doesn’t fit quite right. He doesn’t deserve to be thought of as nothing but a mere object of sexual desire. When I think about him, when I read his text messages, I try to imagine what his laugh would sound like when I make a joke. I don’t picture his naked body against mine.

It’s not in the Ross MO. It’s unexplainable, I know. But damn. This boy has some sort of voodoo magic up his sleeves, because never, in all of my twenty four years of living on God’s green earth have I ever laid in bed with my thumb hovering over the call button on my cell phone because I wanted to hear someone’s voice.

And yet, here I am. Staring at the contact picture that he sent of him and Bogart, looking at those deep brown eyes and wondering if he would dare to answer if I called.

I am so fucked.

 

***

  
I’ve always been a sucker for brown eyes. I learned that when I fell for Helena awhile back. And His, they’re so overpowering. They demand your undivided attention. They hold everything there is about him that I want to understand firmly on the surface. Every time he sends a photo- it’s new- it’s a new unfamiliar feeling of  appreciation. It’s like I appreciate that he exists at all, in my presence or not, I couldn’t care less. All I know is he’s out there and that’s good enough for me.  
He sends photos a lot. It’s sweet.

Today, He sends a photo when I’m walking Dottie. I want to say thank you. Quite honestly it’s the only thing I can think to say so Instead I send a photo of me and my baby girl right back.

He sends the photo right back highlighting the only thing that matters, her. He’s scribbled me out entirely. He couldn’t be bothered with me. He wants her. He’s charmed by her, as everyone is, and as everyone should be quite frankly. Me on the other hand? The boy- he couldn’t give a shit let alone a half. I’m enchanted by that.

 

***

He couldn’t give a damn about me.  I find that charming, enchanting even. I love that he doesn’t want me. Maybe that’s wrong. But it’s refreshing, when it seems that every person on the planet is trying to get in on the Ross secrets. Practically begging to suck me off. Here he is, not even _willing_ to get _coffee_ with me. He really is one in a million.

_[12;43 PM] How about you come get coffee with me, we don’t even have to talk about work if you don’t want. It’ll be fun, I’ll buy. RR_

_[12:44 PM] Uh, actually no thanks i’m good. We can just… ya know, keep it casual. BU_

_[12:44 PM] Oh, cmon, I said I’d buy you have to at least hope that means travelling to the coffee capital of the world. RR_

_[12:47 PM] Yeah, as if,  you were not going to take me to Columbia. BU_

_[12:47 PM] Shit- that would’ve been smart, I was actually thinking seattle. RR_

_[12:55 PM] LOL oops, sorry to burst your bubble. But i’m not that kind of girl. BU_

_[12:56 PM] What kind of girl? RR_

  _[12:58 PM]The ‘climb into private jets with internet strangers’ kind of girl. BU_

_[12:59 PM] who are you calling a stranger? We’ve been non-stop for the past two weeks, i’m pretty sure I hardly qualify. RR]_

_[1:04 PM]You keep telling yourself that sweetheart BU_

I didn’t respond to him, then. He really wasn’t going to do it, he wasn’t going to cave, he meant it, he would see me at the shoot. Nothing more, nothing less. I would just have to wait until then, or wait until his next text in order to ask him again, and likely get turned down again. Fine by me. Well- fine by me as long as he doesn’t stop coming back.

I’m Ryan Ross, though! Surely he won’t.

...But how can I be sure?

  


**Brendon**

 

The mirror is streaked with blood. Rather, it looks like blood. It’s red and thick and I can barely make out my face through the murky colour. I look at my hands and see the same red stains on my palms… It’s a beautiful sort of massacre, I suppose.

I’m blurring the lines of who I am and who I’m meant to be with lipstick. I was foolish to have thought that something like lipstick could spark a revolution. That something-- anything-- would change. I was wrong. I usually am, these days.

My shoulders are weak from carrying this weight around with me. My entire body is aching and fatigued from fighting back this other person caged, not so quietly behind my ribs. Trapped by an environment which doesn’t have tolerance for this type of beauty. And as I sit here, with the horrifying words that were whispered on the wind as I passed through the streets echoing through my mind. I feel fear, as sharp as a blade tracing the lining of my stomach. Fear, because I am unsure if I’ll ever truly be able to hand her the keys to free herself. Fear, because if I do give her the keys, if I do hand them over, will I ever truly be safe? Then again, am I safe with her inside of me?

Suddenly, in the hysteria of it all, I hear a small buzz. On the floor beside the mirror, there rests my phone with His name illuminating the screen. _Rockstar._

_[2:28 PM] You haven’t sent me a photo of yourself today. Just gotta check in to make sure you haven’t died, ya know, basic routine. RR_

She comes bubbling out of me in the form of a laugh, a small giggle. She’s there, peering at the streaks of mascara that line her cheeks, she’s there, covered in lipstick, and she’s there, feeling a little more human. His words comfort her.

_[2:28 PM] Just a sec ;) BU_

The screen of the phone is littered now with red splotches in the shape of fingerprints. It doesn’t matter, because He’s waiting, and if it’s one thing I’ve learned over the course of the last month, it’s that He doesn’t have the patience of a saint. Who knew a career in the music business for 7 years could ruin someone that quickly.

Some parts of me wish that I could kill her. That it would make things easier. It would probably be easy to kill her if she weren’t always the angel on my shoulder. I love her.

As I watch the lipstick, her blood, wash down the drain, I’m filled with panic. Cleansing myself of her feels wrong. She feels like a part of me, surely, that’s why I can’t figure out just how to keep her hidden. How to keep her from continually seeping through the cracks in my walls and rearing her beautiful head. She’s not behind my ribs, she never was. She takes over my surface and I cloak her in a mask. If you wear a mask for too long you suffocate, and even my cold heart needs oxygen.

He gives me courage to let her breathe. He sings songs about being who you are, he sings songs about inclusivity and beauty, and he gives me strength to just… Be. However, indirectly. Once my face becomes a blank canvas again, I twist the tube of lipstick and pass it over my lips in strips of pink velvet. Nothing else. That’s enough for Her to come out from within me to greet the new man in the phone. I can hear her in my own voice, _Hello! My name is B! I like the colour pink! Nice to meet you_!

She’s sweeter than I am. She’s shyer, too. But somewhere in the dozens of photos I take, it becomes clear when I stare into my own eyes that we aren’t as different as I try to make myself believe. There’s no me _and_ her. There’s me, or her. I am her, she is me. And I’m scared shitless at the prospect of exposing that to someone else. Let alone sending a photo of myself with painted lips to somebody I barely know.

But I manage to, anyways. I manage to snap a perfect photo of the perfect smile, despite anxiousness being blatantly visible in my eyes. And without a second thought, without allowing myself a chance to feel that immense doubt once more, I send the photo and wait. Wait for any indication that it was a good decision in letting myself become her, if only for a moment.

Bogart is happily nuzzling my neck beneath my jaw when my phone chirps back at me with Ryan’s reply.

_[4:21 PM] You’re beautiful. And that lipstick is a nice touch! Clearly it was fate that gave you those lips. RR_

And just like that, my heart is in my throat again. He’s called me beautiful before, sure. But it feels different this time, with her on display. It feels more real, more true. Like maybe he actually believes it. And there’s that naivety that William is always getting after me for. _You’re not special_.

But he makes me feel like I am, and I think that in the long run that’s all that truly matters.

 

***

 

“Are you fuckin insane, dude?!” William asks me as he slides my phone back to me across the table. He has spent the last five minutes being baffled by just how I handle my relationship with my employer, like it’s any of his business. When I look up at him, his exasperated expression is marred by the red glow from the neon bar sign that glares across my glasses. Pushing them up onto the top of my head, I focus my eyes on him and laugh at the way his nose screws up when he doesn’t approve of something. It humors me the way he really thinks that his insistent opinion will change my actions at all.  William is a damn snob, a narcissistic snob, and he knows it.

“What?” I ask flippantly. My shoulders raise in a shrug. “Why should I pander to some celebrity’s ego?”

William balks at my words. It’s funny to watch him get worked up. He’s quite the diva in training. “That _celebrity_ is your next employer, B.” He emphasized. The waitress pauses at our table to lower a set of beer bottles down in front of us. I smile in thanks and watch her go. She’s beautiful, I envy her. “Dude. Go to fuckin’ Seattle with the guy. Suck a little dick. Get a little leg up on your competition.”

I almost choke on the drink as he speaks with such vulgarity. “Beg pardon?”

William rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on, Brendon, everyone knows that that’s how you get anywhere in tinsel-town. I don’t care if his ego is the size of fuckin’ Manhattan- you gotta go. And in the end, you shouldn’t either”

I heave a sigh out through my nose, and fixate on something other than my agent’s eager face. It’s such a strange dynamic that the two of us have-- It’s beyond clear William is more excited about my potential hook-up with the _illustrious_ Ryan Ross than I am. Dude needs to cool it.

“I’m impressed, Bill. Really, I am.” I say to him, sporting a smug grin. He cocks a brow at me in confusion. “That you really think that by me just dropping down and sucking cock is any different than what any other person in this town does. Wouldn’t it set me further apart from the herd if I just… Wasn’t, I dunno… Not like that?”

William’s jaw went slack as he looked me dead in the eye. The contact couldn’t be maintained. His gaze immediately darted around the room, like maybe something around us could explain my actions. Clearly my answer is not what he wants to hear. “Seriously? God- Man- I will never get you- okay-” He stammers and his eyes flutter as if clearing  away the fog I had apparently covered him in. “Do you…” he pauses to take a breath, preparing himself for how clueless I really am. “do you even have any clue how sought after that guy is? The straightest guys in the country want him, hell I’d blow him! Look, if someone hands you a Louie Vuitton designer bag set for free-- you take it!” He exclaimed, “I don’t care if you like Louie Vuitton or not you take the God damn bag. Take the bag Brendon.”  

It was becoming extremely clear to me just how big of a hardon William had for Ryan, “You take the bag,” I huff rising from my seat and grabbing my beer and adding; “Clearly he’s down for anybody and everybody,” I roll my eyes. I roll them so hard that I hope they’ll get stuck. My mother used to say this to me when I was a boy-- this attitude I seem to be sporting has been pervasive in my life to this day.

“I would but no one’s offering me the damn bag,” I hear William in the distance, he’s probably still sitting at the table, annoyed that I got up at all.

I entirely assume that William will follow me out of the building, but he usually does, so why would this time be any different? Especially now that he’s determined that the topic of conversation deserves his attention. Whether he does or not: he’s giving me a headache and I need a damn smoke.

In a huff as he claws his way out of the booth William grumbles, “Oh for fuck’s sake Brendon cut the pity party, it’s not his job to make you feel special.” William quips, and as we’re walking out the door he pivots to lock eyes with our waitress motioning to the table and mouthing a ‘be right back’ and a thumbs up. She’s sweet, she always serves us, no doubt she’ll save the table.

“I know that-” I mutter as the two of us step into the thick evening air. Dipping my hand into my pocket to fish out my cigarettes, I look around at the walls of the back alley. Graffiti from nameless street artists paints the walls, a dumpster that serves as home for rats and racoons sits overflowing at the far end of the alley, and in the middle of it, standing outside the back entrance of the bar, here we are. And in my observation, I recall the first night I happened to text Ryan. I remember that he had said that he was at a party. Some fancy record label party, surely glittered with glitz and glamour, I can’t help but think that he wouldn’t be caught dead in this place.

I spark the end of my cigarette and watch as it burns orange. It’s a habit I picked up long ago. It makes me feel good sometimes. I guess that’s the point, of nicotine. I mean beyond that, beyond the chemical reaction that was created to artificially create happiness.  I don’t know how I mean it, really.

Every time I light one, I can hear her voice in my head, as loud and clear as a whistle. _Those things are gonna kill ya someday, Urie._ Her face is always visible in the smoke of each and every one. I miss her. I wonder if she’s still out there.

I guess smoking became a security blanket of sorts somewhere along the line. A way to busy myself, something putting distance between me and my conversation partner--  a boundary. I like boundaries.

“But I’m not going to be just some other guy. I’m sick of these people thinking they own us because they pay our paycheck.” I put the cigarette between my lips and pull in a drag. There it is, almost immediate, that feeling of safety and security. God bless nicotine.

William huffs. “Enough of this poetic bullshit, B. God, it’s not even cute anymore. I get that you’re on this self righteous mission to make it on your own- defend the little guy and all that, but Jesus…” Sometimes William’s words get ahead of his head and he has to piece a statement together last second, it always leads to stammering. “The thing is-- they do own you. Because they sign the fucking check. What do you do when they don’t sign it? You starve or make sure they sign it- those are the damn choices. I can promise you his check is big.” he paused, clearly an innuendo he wanted me to pick up on. But the innuendo wasn’t enough, “and I’ve heard his dick is t--”

I cut him off, “Jesus, Will. I get it--” I furrowed my brow at him disappointed that he would take it that far. Through my words I released the smoke from my lungs, I almost missed it in it’s absence.

“Look,” William sighed knowing I was annoyed with him, not that that’s in any way abnormal, “All I’m saying is sometimes you’ve gotta do what you’ve gotta do.”

“You’re the reason I do this-” I shake my cigarette at him. The ash at the end flakes off and falls away in the breeze. “You’re the reason I need to poison myself to keep me fuckin sane. I hope you’re happy.” I hiss, putting it back between my lips. “Look, I get it. I do- but I want my business to depend on my abilities, not on what a good piece of ass I am.”

“Alright, fine. Whatever.” William shakes his head and knocks back more of his beer. I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows. “This is the last thing I’m going to say about it…” he continues. My eyes meet his once again. “This is a _people_ business,” He tucks his beer under his arm and claps his hands together in front of himself. As if praying for my understanding. Maybe it’s just his inherent narcissism.

“People have to _want_ to work with you. On set and off, and people are going to want to work with people who get on their knees more than people who don’t. That’s just the fact of the matter. I understand you’re not going to-” he put a hand up and shook his head still clearly in disbelief.

“Even though it’s Ryan fucking Ross but _whatever_ not my business if you’re getting laid or not. It’s just going to make my job all that much harder. But you’re worth it buddy.” He put a firm hand on my shoulder and it makes me flinch a little.

He laughs. I laugh right back, or pretend to at least. I know he doesn’t believe anything he just said. I’m pretty sure that he doesn’t notice that I’ve tuned out when my phone buzzes.

_[10:34 PM] Okay, but you’re sure? RR_  

I really cannot believe the nerve of this guy, I have to admit, though-- his perseverance is impressive, and I haven’t yet determined if it’s flattering or creepy. I know William stops talking when I pull it out to text him back. He creeps in to take a look, I can feel his excitement all the way from my own body. He sees I’m giving him a chance and he’s thrilled.

_[10:37 PM] Tell you what, Rockstar. You impress me. Impress me with one thing that doesn’t have anything to do with your money and I’ll get coffee with you. BU_

_[10:38 PM]I thought I’ve already impressed you with my baby girl. RR_

He did do that. God, had he ever done that.

But that response came back so fast, it’s obvious that he hardly even tried. He didn’t even pause to think. That in itself isn’t impressive. How can one be considered impressive without putting in the work?

_[10:39 PM] You have, two issues, though, that’s not_ you _and I know how much a pup like that costs. Disqualified. BU_

_[12:03 AM] I’ve got nothing. RR_

It took him a little longer this time. Part of me wonders if he actually thought about it, or if something more pressing is demanding his attention. A promiscuous blonde, perhaps. Maybe he’s just trying to fool me into thinking he thought about it. Although I’m not sure why he’d try and fool me just to tell me he’s clueless. Laziness, maybe. Or perhaps, he’s just that shallow, everything boils down to money for him.

In the time he took to respond, I’d finished my beer, my cigarette, and caught the city bus back to Hell. I’m coiled up in bed, Bogart right beside me when it settles in that this is going to become one hell of a game of cat and mouse. And I’ll be damned if I don’t win.

_[12:05 AM] See you next week, Rockstar. BU_

 


End file.
